Siberian Overture
by bad-touch-butler
Summary: Stuck within one of the many Russian prisons in Siberia, Gilbert is forced to await his judgement day in a cold cell, alone, with too much time to think. However, as his grip on time fades with the days, only one image can come to mind, and no one can take that away. Gift fic for Skylar. Rated T for language and minor violence.


**Author's Note**- rated **T** for** language** and **minor violence**, implied bad-touch-trio and Austria x Hungary I'm not really sure if this would be considered a drabble or a one-shot. I just kinda got muse one day after watching a Berlin wall documentary and BAM! This was born.

gift fic for Skylar 3

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Orange light fluttered in from behind the cracks of the prison bars covering the only window in the room. It was dawn, or, perhaps it was dusk. Both times of day looked the same from where the sole prisoner sat with his bloodied arms cradling his knees. Gilbert could no longer keep track of days marked along the thick gray cell walls had grown into one another, and he could no longer tell which tally mark was which- which one he had started from from which one he had marked today. If it had been a year then he wouldn't have been surprised. Gilbert seemed to have grown used to the crushing silence, the cacophony of Russian troops, the only sound apart from the occasional squeak of mice and his ragged breaths becoming visible in the cold Siberian air. Being lonely was fun, but this lonely was killing him faster than the frost bite that he swore by the dim lighting was eating his barely covered feet fingers.

He didn't dare raise his eyes when someone opened the cell. A broken dog must not bark unless told to; a broken stallion must not rear it's head before its master holds the bit in its mouth much like he felt the cold hands squeeze his jaws and sink its fingers just below his earlobe. He wanted to yell, to scream, to kick and fight, but he had not the strength, and he feared that if he made a sound, they would win, and the breath he took in now would be his last. "You're looking lovely today, friend," it was a Russian accented voice that Gilbert didn't have to put a face to to recognize and feel the urge to vomit. "I see that you haven't touched your meal from last night."

Ivan released Gilbert's cheeks before lowering himself to where he could give the albino a stern look in his eyes. Copper so dark it was almost red met the soldier's frigid violet, but still, not a single expression coated the German's face. The Russian's rounded cheeks contorted as though he was either truly concerned or just plain disgruntled, but, in the illumination of fading sunlight, the German prisoner was hesitant to say which one. His mind slowed whenever Ivan grabbed a spoon and a bit of freezing mush and began shoving it in Gilbert's mouth, never moving even as the fair haired man began to gag and choke. He'd come to bring new food, still mush, but warmer mush, some that wouldn't cause a man to expel what little he had in stomach quite so quickly. It didn't seem like the German needed that luxury from Ivan's standpoint, and he planned to make the most of what he could with what torturous utensils he had on him, even if that utensil just so happened to be one for eating.

"I can't have my toy getting broken so soon." Again, Ivan had stood, the scarf adorning his neck whipping within a gust that had fell in through the window much like the dawn twilight Gilbert had been glancing at before. The cold bit Gilbert like a beast, but to the beast, the broken man could only stare and try to keep breathing-

-to keep breathing for Elizabeta and that damn Roderich who Gilbert wished would finally just pull the stick out of his ass and man up for his lovely wife, the wife who Gilbert would have given anything just to have smile at him like she did for her aristocratic husband; brilliant white teeth exposed between plump rose colored lips. His heart race quickened just by the thought of her, to which Ivan must have believed was form fear and grinned.

Again, the spoon was forced into his mouth, dumped, and then another came and went. There was no flavor, but the rancid odor and gooeyness was enough to bring tears to Gilbert's eyes, yet they refused to fall. Seeing the agony that his captive was lacking, the much larger man brought himself to the ear hidden by hair the color of his country's grounds.

"Tell me, why do you not just die already? It would be much easier on you and me, da?"

Gilbert had to stop himself from reacting irrationally and wasting energy. For Antonio, for Francis. Honestly, he missed the accompaniment of the duo more than he would have thought. He kept his broken heart at tempo for the memories stored within his shallow one track mind; causing fights, staying out late, getting just a little too drunk and forgetting just why the hell Francis wasn't wearing pants- When there was no answer, Ivan sighed and used his boot to nudge Gilbert's already shattered rib cage, resulting in a low groan spilling from his chapped lips.

"Go on now, be good boy and tell me why you-"

"Because I'm awesome."

There was a brief pause. When there wasn't an immediate answer, or a fist to strike him down, the German soldier felt just a little spark pride burn in his chest, something to keep him warm in the sub arctic temperatures that he had endured now for months on end. Gilbert's smile broke and almost hurt as he stretched the unused muscles in his cheeks. Ivan could only blink, dumbfounded.

"Izvinite?"

And still, the German's smile didn't fade.

"You heard me, dickhead," he growled shying away from the large black boot still pressed to his abdomen. "I'm living for me, and me only."

His heart ached. His face ached. Blood had long dried on Gilbert's pale skin and made his face and arms look dirty. He didn't care to bring anyone else into this by answering, so he just didn't. This was his fault. It was his loss. And even as he felt the bitter sting of the boot slam down and crush his already broken ribs and the metallic taste of blood coated his useless palette, Gilbert couldn't help but to stay smiling, arrogantly, a small dribble of blood spilling from somewhere beyond his throat.

There was really only one reason he was here, keeping the eye of thousands of Russians, taking the beatings and rappings and awful food that Siberia had to offer- there was but a few reasons he kept breathing, he kept his heart beating, but there was only one reason that he had persevered his arrogance this long. In the wallet he had still in the back of his pocket, and image came to mind, the same image he had within the compartment used to show your identity. If Ivan or any of them knew, surely the other would be struck down and brought here as well.

Gilbert had kept his composure for this long, and he could keep it until the end.

Siberia could break a man's heart and soul, but Siberia could never break the love an older brother has for his little sibling.

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Izvinite* = excuse me


End file.
